


How To Disappear Completely

by ekbe_vile



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Case Fic, Collars, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, Gore, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Rope Bondage, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekbe_vile/pseuds/ekbe_vile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not the first time Hannibal has had Will Graham like this, nor will it be the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

 

It is not the first time Hannibal has had Will Graham like this, nor will it be the last, but it is _glorious._

 

 _Will_ is glorious beneath him. The heaving of his lungs. The quiver that runs across his back, visible just beneath the sweaty stretch of his skin.  The blood that rises up but does not spill, still leaves its mark, dark bruises crossing his backside and his thighs where the crop has struck him.  His hands, unrestrained this time, clench and unclench, fisting the sheets, but Will is trying so hard to be good for Hannibal and it leaves them both breathless.

 

Perspiration has gathered between Will’s shoulder blades, has trickled down the arch of his spine and pooled in the small of his back.  Hannibal sets the crop aside, on the mattress where Will can see it, and then bends to dip his tongue into the well of sweat.  He tastes Will, drinks him in, and it’s not the first time nor will it be the last, but Hannibal intends to savor it.  

 

It would not be so hard, to live out the rest of his days like this, in anticipation.

 

He straightens up, feels the salt of Will’s sweat drying on his lips. “Another set, I think,” he says as he soothes one hand over the heated curve of Will’s ass, reading the welts where he’s already left his mark.

 

Will shudders and twitches under Hannibal’s touch. He’s shaking now, the brief respite of Hannibal’s mouth on his back enough to disarm and unwind him. He makes a small noise, a quiet, “Please,” muffled in the sheets. 

 

Hannibal recovers the riding crop from where it lies beside Will, uses the leather tongue at its end to lick between his cheeks, over his hole, down to the already red, stinging join of his thigh. He measures Will’s reaction – the tremble of his over-taxed muscles, the hitch of a sob held in his throat. “Will,” Hannibal says, demanding his attention. “Do you remember your word?”

 

Will rubs his face on the pillow, turns his head so that Hannibal can read his profile. “Yes, Doctor,” he answers. His eyes are squeezed shut; a deep V furrows between his brows.

 

“Tell me your word, Will.”

 

He exhales. “Winston.”

 

Hannibal taps the crop against the backs of his thighs, a gentle reminder. “Do you wish to use it?”

 

“No, Doctor.”

 

Hannibal thinks it must be pride that surges low in his belly and up into his chest, but he can’t say for certain. It is so like the sensation experienced when he serves dinner to his guests, the pleasure that unfurls in his stomach as they take their first cautious bites and sigh into the flavors.

 

But this is different, this is dangerous – this is pride seasoned with a pinch of affection.

 

“Another set, I think,” he says, and lands a precise blow with the crop. 

 

The smack of leather on skin is satisfying, but it does not compare to the punch of Will’s half-choked, “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

He needs to be more careful.

 

***

 

The magazine lies there on the side table, out of place amidst the copies of Smithsonian and The New Yorker – a lifestyle rag masquerading as a psychiatric journal, the language of its studies tuned to the common ear, more sex tips than intelligent discourse. Hannibal flips through the pages, ready to discard the offensive literature, when his eyes catch on a headline.

 

_BDSM Correlated With Better Mental Health, Says Study_

 

The article is broad and coarse, written to titillate rather than educate.

 

It’s not something that Hannibal has planned, but Will has shown him the value of patterns, of chance and coincidence. They exist everywhere, in nature and consciousness and design, and the ability to recognize them, to bring order out of chaos, is close to godliness. The divinity of the neural synapse. The empty space between neurons where an electrical impulse becomes an idea, an emotion, a work of art. This is part of Will’s gift. 

 

Side by side, Hannibal finds he and Will possess an eerie symmetry; side by side, they could be a whole human being.  They could be divine.

 

Hannibal’s mouth curls as he closes the magazine and replaces it on the side table among its more innocuous contemporaries. He plants his seeds as easily as Will jigs for river trout.

 

***

 

Jack calls Will up to Northern California, to a decommissioned fire lookout on a ridge in Klamath National Forest. Budget cutbacks had forced the structure’s closure some years before, but the view, and the isolation, make it an ideal getaway for those seeking a bit more solitude than the typical public campground provides.

 

Will’s rear wheel economy rental doesn’t stand a chance on the gravel road leading to the lookout. He parks in the turnaround at the trailhead with the other emergency vehicles and begins the hike to the crime scene.

 

The air is hot and heavy and buzzing with insects, drought stripped brush clawing at the dry earth, dust rising under every step. By the time Will reaches the lookout, his flannel is soaked through with sweat and his hair is matted down on his scalp, as though awakening from a nightmare.

 

Jack is there, waiting for him. He doesn’t speak, just turns and climbs the steps to the lookout. Will instinctively comes to heel.

 

The lookout is all windows and unfinished wooden floors. What was originally a fire observation post now has the comfortable, lived in feel of a beloved weekend cabin.

 

The victim (or victims, if the limb configuration is any indication) faces the western wall of windows. The body has been assembled and reassembled, a master craftsman’s understanding of balance and gravity reshaping skin and limbs, knotted organs and woven muscle, into something that at first glances passes for a Quaker rocking chair. 

 

He sucks in a breath – it takes him more than a moment to understand what he’s seeing, but when he does, his insides roil.

 

“Everybody out,” Jack barks, a glance sending the remaining forensic techs skittering for the door.

 

That’s Will’s cue to move closer. To let the pendulum swing backwards. To dissemble the pieces of the whole, to trail his fingertips over the carefully arranged tools of his trade as his materials whimper and squirm. _To push brass rivets into her eyes._

 

_She’s still alive when he breaks her bones, still alive when he applies the vinegar that makes them malleable to his design. She doesn’t scream, not like the other girl, who voiced her distress from beginning to end as he reshaped her spine and bolted her joints._

 

_It takes time. Not for lack of skill or want of materials, but there’s so much pain at times he can scarcely bear the weight of his own body. He’s impatient. He aches to sit, to watch the sun set over the canyon pines and the darkness fall between the boulders along the dried up creek bed._

 

_She will take his pain, she will carry him, and for a little while, he will find relief._

 

***

 

“There were two victims.  Young women.” 

 

Will’s lips brush against the sticky plastic telephone receiver in his hotel room. He tastes the salt of other peoples’ sweat, sugary sweet saliva, memories of despair and hate and desire whispered across the lines.  The lamp gives off a sickly orange glow, throbbing with the pulse of electrical current. Darkness crowds around Will where he sits on the edge of the bed and grinds the phone against his ear.  He can hear fingernails scratching somewhere in the shadows.

 

_Will?_

 

He shakes himself.  “I’m here, I’m sorry Dr. Lecter.”

 

A soft breath reaches him through the wire, across the country, across time zones.  It’s late here in California, later still in Baltimore – if his call disturbed Hannibal’s sleep, he has not mentioned it.  _How did he choose them?_

 

“They were strong.  Durable.”  Will glances down to see that the telephone cord has coiled around his arm.  It cinches tight at his elbow when he tries to disentangle it.  “He picked them the way a carpenter chooses a tree.”

 

_Your killer was a craftsman?_

 

Will’s stomach rises, bile burning hot in his esophagus as he remembers the broken limbs and twisted spines, jumble of meat and bone strapped and hammered and bolted into a more suitable form.  “He dismembered them and used their parts to make a chair,” Will spits.  “A _chair,_ Hannibal.  And Heather Beier…she was still alive when he…” He can’t finish. “She was still warm.”

 

_A quite literal objectification._

 

“Yes and no.”  Will stands, paced as far as his vinyl tether will let him.  “He wanted them to hold him, to carry the weight of his pain.”  A sense memory not his own lances down his spine, catches him off balance at the foot of the bed.  His knees give out, his legs unfolding with the sudden loss of muscle control.  He bites back a grunt as he goes down, pulling the duvet with him to pile on the floor.

 

_Will?_

 

“It hurts.”  He gasps, can’t steady his breathing.  “He’s in so much pain he’s like a wild horse drowning in quicksand.  It would feel so good to just let go and sink down, but he can’t...”

 

_Will, I need to listen to my voice._

 

His lungs are filling up with lead, weighing him down.  He gasps.  “Hannibal…”

 

_I need you to breathe with me, now.  In, two, three, four – out, two, three, four –_

 

The steady rhythm grounds him, keeps him from spinning out into the atmosphere.  He breathes with Hannibal, a quiet loathing turning somewhere in the back of his consciousness because he needs someone to dictate his basic bodily functions, to write the notes that will keep him alive.  A bone-melting weakness steals over him and he sinks all the way to the floor, lies with one ear pressed to the grimy carpet while the other still follows the gentle pulse of Hannibal’s voice.

 

 _Good,_ Hannibal says when Will’s breathing has calmed.  _Such a brave boy._

 

Will shivers as the pleasure of approval pools in his stomach.

 

_What’s your nearest city?_

 

He has to think about it, a moment.  “Yreka.”

 

_There’s a flight into Medford, with a layover in San Francisco, but it’ll still be fourteen, maybe fifteen hours before I reach you._

 

Will closes his eyes, turns his face into the duvet heaped up beside him.  “Hannibal, no, I can’t ask you to fly across the country for me.”

 

_You’re not asking, and neither am I.  Do you have your collar, or do I need to bring one?_

 

And there it is again, the ball of pleasure – it shifts from the small of his back to a spot just behind his groin, heavy between his legs.  “I have it, Doctor.”

 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Will can imagine the way Hannibal’s eyes close and the tip of his tongue moistens his lips.  _Good boy.  I want you to take a shower, and then put it on.  You will get in bed and rest and wait for me.  Understood?_

 

Will’s breath hitches.  “What if Jack needs me?”

 

_You have specific instructions from me designed to insure your well-being. He will wait._

 

“Yes, Doctor.”

 

_I will text you when I’ve landed in Medford.  At that time you will provide me with the specific details of your location and assume Position 3 to await my arrival._

 

He doesn’t fight the soft whimper on his lips.  “Yes, Doctor.”

 

_Good, Will.  I will speak with you soon._

 

Then Hannibal disconnects the call, and for a long moment Will lies on the floor and listens to the hum of the dial tone.

 

It feels so good, letting go.

 

***

 

Hannibal does not have to wait long for Will to notice the magazine. When he opens the door to the private waiting room at 7:30 on a Wednesday night, Will is there, glossy cover folded back, headline glaring like an accusation.

 

“Catering to broader tastes, are we?” Will says, a half-formed smirk at the corner of his mouth. It looks more like a grimace. “I feel like I just found a Playboy in a pediatrician’s office.”

 

“A patient left it,” Hannibal offers as Will steps past him, turning his shoulders so they do not brush against one another. “It’s not to my taste, but I thought some might find it an amusing diversion.”

 

“Psychiatric junk food,” Will snorts. “I’m surprised you tolerate it, even as a diversion.”

 

Hannibal shrugs, takes to his seat across from Will. “It’s only a magazine.”

 

The younger man slides back in his own leather chair, one leg crossing the other as he flips through the pages with a carefully cultivated disdain. “I find it crass,” he says, voice pitching low. “Like a Gauguin reproduced on a coffee mug.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

Will gives another short laugh, the disingenuous kind that gets stuck in his sinuses.  He holds up the article for Hannibal to see. “I’ve always disliked people who state the obvious as though it were some great revelation.”

 

_BDSM Correlated With Better Mental Health, Says Study._

 

Hannibal tries not to marvel at Will’s ability to pick up even the most scattered of bread crumbs. “Is it obvious?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

 

It’s Will’s turn to shrug. He closes the magazine, drops it to the floor beside his chair. “I imagine it would be a great relief,” he murmurs, “to let go for a while.”

 

He’s deliberately vague, dodging any deeper consideration of the question and his own reply. “You mean to surrender the burden of choice,” Hannibal provides, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands loosely folded. “To experience pure physical sensation.”

 

Will won’t look at him, stares off across the room as though he could peel the wallpaper with his gaze alone. He doesn’t reply, only makes a soft “mmm” in agreement.

 

Hannibal gently guides him back. “You could take a retreat.”

 

“You mean a voluntary trip to the nut house.” Will shakes his head. “It wouldn’t work. The psych ward lacks a necessary…intimacy.”

 

“How could you give up control to someone you don’t trust. Will…” He pauses as though considering the question he is about to ask. He already knows the answer, but he wants to hear it in Will’s own words. “Have you anyone that you do trust in this capacity?”

 

“I think I’d rather talk about my mother,” Will mutters.

 

“Easier to shake loose that low-hanging fruit.”

 

Will makes a soft noise in agreement, but his eyes are distant, darting about the room, looking for a safe place to rest. So like Will, in need of rest and security and the assurance that even if he loses himself, there’ll be someone to guide him back. He pushes himself out of his chair to pace, can’t stay still for long, muscles twitching with some undefined need for action.

 

Hannibal rises and follows him, still keeping a distance though he mirrors the younger man’s steps. “I consider you a friend, Will,” Hannibal breathes over his shoulder, close enough to experience an olfactory response, close enough that Will must be able to feel the heat of him.  “I do hope in time you will find it in yourself to trust me.”

 

Will half turns into his heat, his neck angled just enough to watch Hannibal from the corner of a bloodshot eye. “Are you suggesting we test this study’s findings?”

 

“It’s the scientific method,” Hannibal replies, and he’s even closer now, close enough to lay his hands on Will’s shoulders, to slide them down his arms and grasp his wrists, twisting them behind his back. “Such an experiment lacks veracity, if the results cannot be duplicated.”

 

Will squirms, arching his back like he wants to pull out of Hannibal’s grip, but only succeeds in pressing the gentle curve of his ass against Hannibal’s crotch.  “Ah - ” he starts, but the sound catches in his throat and Hannibal senses rather than sees the way his eyelids shutter, lashes a darker smudge against the dark circles under his eyes.

 

“I hope you will consider it,” Hannibal says, moves his right hand from Will’s wrists and up the side of neck.  He bears his thumb down on the pulse point – firm, but not threatening.  A promise.  “If this so-called study has any merit, the results could prove to be highly beneficial.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse.

Dinner is a light affair, but Hannibal keeps a careful eye on Will’s wine glass, counting the times he brings it to his lips and drinks. Part of their arrangement is that there will be no mention of it, not until Will gives the signal that he’s ready. By the way he’s taking his wine, Hannibal suspects he’s working up the courage.

He appreciates a Will who has been loosened by alcohol, but he does not want him drunk, not tonight. Although they have both laid out their parameters and terms, Hannibal will allow nothing to taint their experiment. If Will is anything more than pleasantly buzzed, he later might think himself coerced, that Hannibal had taken advantage.

And so he stops Will’s hand when he reaches to refill his glass. Rain patters on the roof and taps at the sliding glass doors to the patio and Will sits frozen for a beat, eyes closed, before pulling his hand back into his lap. Neither of them need speak. Will can feel Hannibal’s intent, and can read his understanding. As much as he enjoys their verbal puzzles, Hannibal can also appreciate this intuitive silence.

At last Will sighs and leans back in his chair, but there is neither fatigue nor satisfaction in his posture, only loose-limbed resignation. His hand moves to his wrist, to the thick leather band of his watch – something hitches in Hannibal’s chest as he watches Will’s fingers work the leather tongue through the buckle, the way it holds its curve, remembering the shape of Will’s wrist.

He takes the watch and lays it deliberately on the table. Relinquishing time; surrendering control.

It is the signal Hannibal has been waiting for.

He drops his napkin to his plate and stands, a nod indicating Will should do the same. “Come,” he says – crosses the dining room to the adjoining study, knowing that Will has fallen into step behind him, bare feet whispering over the raised intricacies of a Persian rug.

He’s had time since their initial negotiations to properly outfit his study. The basement would have been a more practical space, but Will is not ready for that – not ready for the concrete and steel, impersonal medical restraints, the tools of his trade – scalpel and forceps and speculum.

Instead a paper shoji screen, glowing with interior light, sections off the larger space behind Hannibal’s desk. He slides the screen open, waiting for Will to enter first – watching as the younger man’s gaze drifts up to bamboo crossbeams, fitted below the vault of the ceiling. Aesthetically pleasing, and cruelly functional. There are no limits, here, to how he may elevate Will - how Hannibal will string him up, practicing variations of form and gesture before deciding on the final, perfect pose.

Hannibal turns to him with a firm smile. “As we discussed.”

Already a minute tremor has taken Will’s hand as it travels to his collar to unfasten his shirt buttons. He keeps his eyes angled down, resting on Hannibal’s shoulder. In this way he is made for submission; in others, Hannibal looks forward to seeing how far he might bend.

Will shrugs out of his shirt, baring throat and chest. He is scarred from his time as a homicide detective, and from a lifetime of anxiety – little white moon-shaped notches dug into his skin, years of nervous picking, wounds scabbed over, reopened, never allowed to fully heal. Hannibal has to resist the urge to touch. “Tell me your word,” he instead commands, and Will doesn’t hesitate.

“Winston,” he says, and Hannibal wonders at the meaning behind his choice, why the name of this one dog offers Will the promise of safety.

“Kneel,” he says, and revels at the way Will sways on his feet, instinct warring with intellect, before he finally lowers himself to the cushioning of the Persian rug. “Good,” Hannibal rewards him, notes his rigid posture, the way he stays upright like a penitent at the altar. Hannibal indulges the urge to slide his fingers through Will’s hair, to give a little pull, just enough that Will’s head tips back and bares his throat. “You may rest on your heels,” Hannibal says. “This may take a while.”

***

 

They negotiate the details in Hannibal’s office, over a glass of wine at the tail end of a session. Will slouches in Hannibal’s chair, behind Hannibal’s desk, allowed the illusion of power. He needs it, now, if he’s later to surrender it.

The quiet drags on between them, Will rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, chewing his lip, gazing deep into the purple-red liquid. The same color and consistency as richly oxygenated blood. Hannibal wonders what he’s seeing.

“I don’t want to be humiliated,” Will says, and that seems natural – he has enough shame on his own without fetishizing it. “Don’t call me names or…degrade me. Not that I think you would…doesn’t seem your style…”

“It’s important that we understand one another,” Hannibal fills his pause, “and our needs.”

Will eyes him. “And what are your needs, Dr. Lecter?”

“Above all else, I require communication. It is your responsibility to be honest with me, and to recognize your limitations. I am trusting you, Will, as much as you must trust me.

“Second to communication, I demand respect. This may be difficult for you…you are given to sarcasm and barbs when you feel threatened. In our scenes I will not tolerate flippancy; if you find yourself ill at ease, you may use your safe word.”

Will’s gaze has wandered, hovers somewhere now a few inches above the floor, but Hannibal will not correct his behavior in this context. “What _is_ my word?”

“That is your choice. It should be something you will remember, that will come easily to the tip of your tongue in times of duress. It should immediately invoke comfort and safety in your mind.”

On this subject, Will shows no hesitation. “Winston,” he says. “My word is Winston.”

***

The ropes form diamonds and hexagons on Will’s chest and back, the flat plane of his belly and the soft swell of his ass beneath pale blue undershorts. Hannibal has calculated the geometry of his submission, has placed the knots on the most sensitive pressure points, has crafted a cage of rope to contain the heaving of Will’s lungs and the adrenaline-fueled twitch of muscles. Hannibal will give him stillness – he will give him weightlessness.

***

“I would like a blindfold,” Will says. “I think it will make it easier, at first.”

  
***

Blue satin (the color of midnight, not his eyes) slides down over Will’s brow, the bridge of his nose – firm, but not uncomfortable. Hannibal considered other options, but Will is still skittish in spite of his own request. The sleep mask is innocuous – it could be for travel, or daytime rest – the way Will’s shoulders soften and his head dips lets Hannibal know that it is working, that Will is over-stimulated in his daily life and this soft darkness comes as a relief.

“Good,” Hannibal says, cups his hand to the stubbled angle of Will’s jaw. “Such a good boy.”

Will makes a soft noise, not quite a whimper, closer to a murmur – bites down on his lip, not intending to let the sound slip. But he responds well to the praise, turning his face into Hannibal’s palm, nuzzling, like a dog learning its master’s scent.

Hannibal does not expect to be taken off guard, but the submissiveness of the gesture is unexpected, sends a dangerous jolt of heat through his belly down to his groin. He jerks his hand away, as though Will might smell the blood on it, spiced with rosemary and thyme.

Will sucks in an unsteady breath, lips parted and almost trembling at the loss of contact.

“Shh,” Hannibal hushes him, “it’s all right.” He runs his fingers through Will’s hair, already damp with sweat at the scalp, as much to reassure himself as the bound man kneeling before him.

He has tested the ropes to insure they'll safely carry Will's weight - has practiced knots that will hold, but slip easily should he need to quickly release the younger man. Hannibal wants to push Will, wants to make him grit his teeth and dig in his heels and then _push him further._ But not yet. The moment when he slides the first suspension rope through the eyehole he's crafted in Will's harness - the moment when he _pulls_ and Will's knees lift from the ground and the ropes creak and moan - it has to be perfect. It has to instill trust.

Instead he allows his hands to travel the folds of skin and muscle where Will's limbs have been restrained against his body. When he closes his eyes he can see the play of light and shadow as the ropes take Will's weight, dig deeper into his flesh.

Hannibal weaves the suspension ropes through Will's harness, reinforces the loops that bind thighs to ankles, that will pull his body into an archer's bow.

Will gasps at the first pull, lifting his head from where he has allowed his chin to rest against his chest.

"Relax your neck," Hannibal commands, pushing Will's head back down with a steady hand. "You must not place undo strain on the muscles."

Will exhales. "Okay."

And then he is flying - ropes hoisting him up from his kneeling position on the floor, pulling his knees back, letting his shoulders dip forward. His spine bends beautifully, the rope harness around his ribs preventing unnecessary strain, support provided where it is needed.

But he cannot move, not of his own volition - Hannibal has seen to that. He watches for a moment as Will focuses his breathing, as he sways, rocked between gravity and suspension.

"Good," Hannibal whispers, taking another moment to stroke Will's hair. "How do you feel?"

Will pulls his lips between his teeth, as though his mind and his ability to form words have left him. "Floating," he murmurs, and Hannibal rewards him with a longer, deeper stroke - fingers through his hair, over the back of his neck, between the pyramids of his shoulder blades.

"Good," Hannibal says, and then he moves away to his desk.

"Doctor?" There's a note of panic in Will's voice.

"Ssh," Hannibal soothes as he pulls out his chair and settles in at his desk. He withdraws his sketchbook, his 2H and 2B pencils. No eraser. He won't need it. "I'm right here, my boy."


	3. (Art)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not actually a chapter, just art.

Based on Chapter 2, because writing is going slowly.  :(

**Author's Note:**

> If it's not immediately obvious, this story is told out of order. Hope it's not too confusing!
> 
> There is more coming, but I literally write in five or ten minute bursts when it's slow at the office, so I'm not sure how often updates will be coming.
> 
> Anyone who remembers me from the Supernatural fandom on LJ will recall that I am the purveyor of dark, disturbing, fucked up shit. Don't expect this to be any different. :)


End file.
